


deus ex monstrum

by NorthStar



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Dystopia!AU, Gen, Horror, LuckyOne!AU, Monster!AU, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthStar/pseuds/NorthStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In between the shadows and destruction and nothing, there is a change. Then they have to pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from wakinghyde at livejournal.

 

They fight with ruthless competence.

Quiet, effective and without mercy. This is the mission. This is what they do.

At the end of the night, the only thing left in the old office is the pungent smell of blood and rotten bodies. They leave them lying there, crumpled and ugly and terrifying in a macabre display, because that is what the mission states.

A demonstration. Eliminate, and warn. That is what they were supposed to do.

They do not know why. It is not their concern.

One of them digs two fingers between the torn throat of a heavy man in gold rings and a suit. He lets the blood soak, coating his fingers thickly even as he pulls them out and turns towards the big window facing the streets below. It is still dark, and the flickering lights of the street lamps don’t reach their position on the third floor.

The others watch patiently, almost in reverence as he drags his fingers across the window slowly, in precise and controlled movements. When he turns away there is a jagged hexagon painted in scarlet across the pane. A lonely drop crawls down towards the floor and leaves a small trail in its wake.

He turns around and nods to the others.

Then they all take off, in the blink of an eye, away from the scene, into the night, and back to their master, awaiting new orders.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

The first time something goes wrong is when 10 hears the plea from a man just as he is about to break his woman’s (wife? Lover? Sister?) neck.

“Please,” the man sobs, ugly sobbing and wretched hiccups. “I beg you, let her be. You’re only after me, right?”

The woman cries at his feet, her head still held between 10’s palms. He looks at the man, expression void but eyes curious.

This isn’t supposed to deter him. This isn’t supposed to _mean_ anything to him.

But it triggers something in his chest and 10 doesn’t understand what it means.

His brief pause seems to encourage the man.

“I know they sent you after me,” he continues, his face all red and puffed and contorted and for all of his familiarity with the grotesque, 10 wants to look away. “But she doesn’t know anything, I swear…”

The woman keeps crying, twisting between 10’s hands, and he digs his nails into her skin to force her to stay still. She does, but the volume of her wails increase and it’s starting to hurt his ears. He should just finish the job and take off immediately.

He doesn’t.

“I don’t know who you are,” the man says, and 10’s attention flies back to him. His expression is still blank, unreadable, but his eyes are intently focused on his primary target, radiating faintly in the dark. “But have some compassion, please, she is with child – “

But then the man crawls forward, and 10’s lightning reflexes and instincts kick in. He draws a knife from his thigh holster and smashes it between the man’s eyes before he can react, his expression still frozen in a hopeless prayer as red slides out between polished steel and clammy flesh.

The woman, dropped to the floor a mere second earlier, shrieks and flails, scrambling backwards and stumbling to get as far away from the scene as possible. She hits the wall, trembling and crying until she runs out of breath and huddles in on herself. 10 pulls out the knife with careless precision, unminding of the bloody waterfall unleashed by its absence.

He kills the woman and leaves.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

The second time is when 88 shoots a robber on his way to a mission with 12.

He can’t explain why he did it when his handler asks him about it.

He spends two days with psych.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

  
Then 94 comes back to the ward with a teddy bear clutched in one hand.

He settles down to initiate the lengthy post-mission protocol, ignoring the incredulous and confused looks of the nurses and the agents, and starts talking.

“Mission report: 583-double-B, X-94 reports – “

“Hold the fuck up,” his handler cuts him off, and 94 obeys, looking up at him silently. He has never experienced this before, he always recounts his mission carefully before the enquiries begin. But he doesn’t question his handler, because his handler is his master’s mouth, and he is in charge. 94 must always listen.

“What is up with the toy?” His handler demands, pointing to the bear still hanging from 94’s left hand. “We didn’t ask for a souvenir.”

94 thinks about this for a second. Why did he bring the teddy bear back?

“Target was hitting a boy,” he says slowly, phrasing his explanation carefully. “I eliminated the target. The boy was not a part of mission parameters. He gave me the object when I left.” And he had held on to it. It was important. He always had to hold on to any weapons or tools his handler gave him, otherwise he would be punished.

The boy had said it was a gift. His handler said that sometimes too.

“Oh my god,” his handler shakes his head, half laughing, half groaning. 94 doesn’t understand why. He keeps quiet.

“Well, I’m afraid that was a waste of a kid’s favourite toy,” his handler says and rips the bear from 94’s hands. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t protest either. His handler tosses it to someone by the door and motions something with his head. Then he turns back to 94.

“Alright, let’s start over, X-94, mission report.”

“Mission report: 583-double-B, X-94 reports mission success – “

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

The next issue is with 21.

21 is dangerously effective, and one of the soldiers best suited for solo operations. They are all capable, but 21 seems to excel at them.

That is, until he returns to the ward after a mission with a question rather than confirmed kill.

“Target does not match description provided by the informant,” he says to his handler, dead serious and eyes twinkling. “I suggest abort mission, please advise.”

His handler looks like something just struck him.

“X-21, elaborate,” he demands after a while, and he should punish this kind of audacity, the soldiers are meant to obey, not come up with ideas, but this has never happened with 21 before, and he is not sure what to do.

“Informant identified target as a ‘high level threat’ and a quote, ‘bag of dicks’, unquote, but my observations don’t match this proposition.”

His handler pauses once more, taken aback by both the language and the issue at hand.

“Why not?”

“After observing the target for 11.7 hours,” 21 wrinkles his nose a little. “He appears anything but threatening. He exhibited no behaviour suggestive of danger to anyone, but appeared friendly to weak life forms. Sir, is the target misidentified?”

“That is not your concern,” his handler says, but shuffles through the mission folder anyway, until he finds the picture of the target and hands it over to 21. “Is this the target?”

21 only glances at it for a brief second before nodding.

“I can confirm that this is the target, X-21,” the handler sighs, tucking the picture back. “Now go out and complete the mission. A second team will be dispatched after 24 hours unless mission success is recorded. Do not fail.”

“Very well, sir.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

The biggest problem turns out to be a development, rather than a glitch.

It occurs with 61, which should be expected, because despite his aptitude, 61 has always been the most difficult soldier to work with. He is not the oldest or the youngest, but his functionality is still notably different from the other soldiers.

Still, they mostly catch any changes in the inception phase, and are able to correct or accelerate any nonconformities according to their designs.

This time it happens on a mission.

It is also a much bigger deviation than anything they have seen before. It takes everyone by surprise, including 99 and 12, who are on the mission with him.

The hit was done and the parcel extracted when they are ambushed on their way out. 99 is leading the way, while 12 cradles the parcel and 61 brings up the rear. They have just rounded a corner outside the complex when there is a screech and an enormous black van speeds towards them. 61 is barely able to grab the back of 12’s jacket and pull him back, but 99 takes the full brunt of the car’s aggressive charge, and is sent flying several yards, crumpling against the neighbouring building.

The car skids to a halt as 61 positions himself protectively before 12 and the parcel. He is bigger and bulkier than 12, and the package must be delivered to the ward. That is their mission. That is the only important thing.

His rifle is slung over his shoulder, but he opts for his small sidearms instead as armoured guards stream out of the van’s back door and point their own guns at them. 61 fires three rapid shots, taking out the first two while motioning for 12 to take cover. Then he charges at the group, moving too quickly in the dark for their assailants to follow, and takes two of them down with him in a violent rush of red and black. They crumple to the ground, and one of the guards fires a shot that goes wild, not in 61’s direction at all, but rather towards the car as the angle is twisted by their descent.

The jumble of bodies confuse the remaining three guards for a second, unwilling to shoot and accidentally hit one of their companions, but this is all 61 needs. He is up in a second and shoves the nearest guy into the van with all of his enhanced strength, leaving a great dent as he slumps to the ground. A bullet flies past his head, but he doesn’t pay it any heed. Another one embeds itself in his shoulder as he turns around, and there is a small splash of blood in the night, though 61 hardly seems to notice it. His eyes are gleaming and those are the eyes of a _hunter,_ determination surging stronger than pain.

He needs to finish the mission. Eliminate all threats.

Barely a second later the two guards join their companions on the ground, one neck broken and another taken down by friendly fire.

61 takes a moment to assess the area for further threats when a grenade goes off two yards to his left, knocking him off his feet and into the side of the car.

The world blurs for a second as he tries to gather his bearings, get rid of the dizziness, and this _annoys_ him (he isn’t supposed to be annoyed – he’ll have to state that in the mission report later) because it is a nuisance and he doesn’t like unnecessary interferences in his missions.

He is lying face-down on the ground, shoulder burning and spine creaking from the impact against the car. 61 blinks a couple of times and sees the black forms of the guards he knocked out, his ears are ringing, and something smells like gasoline –

“Don’t move,” a voice says above him, the driver, the one 61 forgot about for half a second – he is getting careless, lack of maintenance? – and he hears a gun cocking. He mentally maps out the scenario. No sound from 12 or 99. 12 must still be in hiding, maybe he even ran off on his own during the fight. 61 frowns. He hopes not. That was not a part of the plan. But if it gets the parcel back to the ward, he supposes it’s okay.

99 might still be out cold. He shouldn’t be, but it is not impossible.

61 isn’t used to relying on others anyway. He cooperates well, they all do – but no matter how good they become at predicting each other, the only thing 61 knows for sure is himself.

This is also why he is the only person involved in his own contingency plans.

Guns are a pest when he is at a disadvantage, because although his body can withstand a lot, he would probably be incapacitated if the guy shot him at point-blank. If he knows how to aim – which he probably does. If he got upright he should be able to overpower him, but he might not get the opportunity. What else? He smelled gasoline earlier – the car is right by him. He would survive the blast, but the driver…

61 thinks about his gear. Muzzle flash is not precise enough, friction unpredictable, but he has a lighter in a side pocket. Can he get it without the driver shooting him?

He moves his right hand slightly, still facing away from the driver, whose loud breathing puts him somewhere behind 61, by the front of the car.

However, he doesn’t move much before a bullet ricochets by his elbow, not close enough to be threatening, but still illustrating the driver’s resolve. Why he doesn’t just shoot him bewilders 61, but he isn’t supposed to consider these things. That’s not his job.

His job is to get the package safely home.

“I told you, don’t move!” The driver yells again, and 61’s hand freezes mid-air, hovering slightly above the tarmac.

“Now put your hands on the ground by your head!” and 61 frowns again, because this is getting very annoying. He needs to finish the mission, quickly, effectively, and he should be able to do this now –

The instant his hand hits the gasoline-covered ground, fire engulfs his arm and it lights up the area in the blink of an eye as it spreads towards the car, and –

Then his world is seared by pain, burning, white, scratching, ice cold and biting, and the driver doesn’t even have the time to cry out as the explosion engulfs them.

He doesn’t pass out, not entirely, but time flies by in a strange, muted fashion, and suddenly strong hands grip his shoulders, lifting him up carefully. He suppresses a groan at the pressure on his injured shoulder, the bullet wound agitated by the heat, and he feels burns littering his back.

“Status, 61?”

That’s 99’s voice. Calm, steady, and it anchors him a little bit. He opens his eyes and slowly regains his balance with one arm slung over 99’s shoulder. He is a lot shorter than 61, but they make it work, and 12 is there as well, standing towards the side and observing them in silence. He still has the package in his arms.

The car is a wreck, still burning and smoking, but the fire is dying out around the carcass, and 61 sees the remains of the guards he took out earlier and the driver. He allows himself to feel mildly pleased by his work.

His work… The fire –

He started that?

“Status, 61?” 99 presses again, nudging him a little.

61 shakes his head and takes a heavy breath.

“Functional,” he says, because above all he is still operational and able to see the mission through. Although he wishes he could lie the fuck down and sleep.

He knows that’s not relevant, but the thought flows through his mind anyway.

99 nods, and starts leading him away. They move slower for a while, until 61 feels confident enough to walk on his own, and they resume their previous flanking position.

They make their way back to the ward and 61’s handler groans at his state while 12 and 99 are whisked away to another room.

When he gives the mission report, 61 does not mention how the car exploded.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

The day after their return from the mission, 61’s handler approaches him with a fuming look on his face.

61’s handler is a middle-aged man with no tolerance for nonsense and very little affection for his charge. Some of the handlers like to pretend that their soldiers work like regular people and treat them almost like children, if only in mocking tones.

This is not the case for 61. His handler does not appreciate the difficulty that comes with 61, with all his idiosyncrasies and weird penchants. He wishes for someone that is easier to work with – someone like 88. Though with that said, he enjoys corporeal punishment, and 61 gives him enough opportunities to practice his slaps.

He delivers a swift one to 61’s right cheek when he is a foot away from the soldier’s chair, opening one of the healing cuts again and a small red drop trickles down his cheek.

“X-61,” he grits out, crossing his arms as 61 straightens in the chair, looking up at him obediently, as if he has no clue about what this is about. Maybe he doesn’t. “You gave me an incomplete mission report yesterday. Please correct yourself.”

“I apologize,” 61 says quietly. His eyes are not glowing, but they are not dull either. “I don’t know what you are referring to, sir.”

“I talked to the rest of the team today,” the handler says. “You left out a detail. 12’s report states that you – that you set fire to the car with your hand?”

“Not entirely precise, sir. I set fire to the gasoline leaking from the car.”

“And why did you refrain from mentioning this yesterday?” His handler is fuming now.

But his expression falls into shock when 61, instead of excusing himself or apologizing looks up at him, looks him right in the eye and _grins,_ wide and white and –

“It wasn’t relevant to the mission.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

They run 61 through tests for three days, and when they are done, they bring in 10 for comparisons. They keep him around for a week, and he doesn’t protest. Doesn’t say anything, in fact.

Although none of the soldiers are talkative, 10 has a peculiar kind of unnerving silence.

He doesn’t speak, but his eyes vibrate and spark, like they contain something dangerous and unknown.

They know 10 is dangerous.

They don’t know what else he might be.

He keeps his thoughts to himself on the matter.

There are whispers, hopes, and additional studies of the original blueprints, but no one voices it out loud for a while. Maybe 61 was an oddity, exception, but if he isn’t –

Eleven days after 61’s hand lit a patch of gasoline on fire, they confirm it.

The soldiers are still developing. And this time, the changes are major.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

04 is a problem.

He is unstable, and they barely take him out. He was the last one, and his mind is still a labyrinth they have only mostly mapped out. He is cooperative when he is with the other soldiers, but alone he defies their wipes and orders.

It scares them a little bit, that they are not able to control him, to understand him.

He is useful – so useful, just like the others, but capable in his own ways, because they all have different skills and qualities.

04 is active where the others are passive, taking control and running a vocal weaponry where the others keep quiet unless specified in the mission statements. 04 can be independent and thinking, beyond the single-mindedness they have instilled in their soldiers, and this can be a useful asset when situations escalate and expected scenarios go awry.

But this tendency is also what makes him a problem.

He works well with 94 and 61, sometimes with 01 and 21. 99 and 10 he doesn’t interact with much.

All of this is fine.

But 04’s individuality makes him question things. Makes him angry, insubordinate – allows him to remember things. He doesn’t accept anything they tell him, and encourages his fellow soldiers to think like him.

It makes him dangerous, not only to their enemies, but to their very foundation.

This is why they don’t take him out very often.

His handler walks into the barren room with a thick dossier tucked under his right arm. He grins at 04, and it is a wicked, ugly thing that 04 detests with all his being.

He detests it like he detests his uniform, the guard they put on his mouth, the screams of dying children and cheap beer. This place, what they do, what they have reduced him to. He hates them all, and his only reconciliation is the presence of the other soldiers, and what little he has left of his own sanity.

It is precious to him, now that so little remains of it.

Was it ever there to begin with?

“Cheer up, X-04,” his handler calls. “You’ve got a mission.”

04 glares at him, hard, hating, cold. His eyes glow, but there is no darkness to wrap himself in now, only the pale, sterile light that strangles his freedom and weighs his shoulders down. He hates this. He hates his handler.

He hates what they call him.

“My name is Baekhyun.”


	2. part ii

They refer to him as 04, but he refers to himself as Baekhyun. That is his name, he knows it.

 

He vaguely knows who he is.

 

He doesn’t know what he was before he woke at the ward. He doesn’t even know if he existed before that.

 

But they never gave him the name Baekhyun, and yet it is as familiar to him as breathing. He knows, even if they didn’t tell him, and this is strange, because everything he knows he has either been taught at the ward or deduced while on missions.

 

Why is this name, Baekhyun, embedded so firmly in his mind, tattooed on his veins and pulsing through muscles? Baekhyun is an integral part of every fibre of his body.

 

He just doesn’t know how.

 

He knows other things, like how it feels to smile and how laughter rumbles in his chest when something entertains him. He knows what annoyance beyond agitation is, and he knows that unfairness angers him. A lot of things he is sure he never learned from the ward, and yet it’s all there in his head.

 

He has a frail grip on his perception of a self, but it is enough to remind him of his individuality. It fuels his frustration with the ward and them, reminds him that he has something to be angry about.

 

He knows the other soldiers are different from him.

 

They don’t know who they are – they don’t even know that they are supposed to be someone, not like Baekhyun does. They accept everything their handlers throw at them, because they serve a master they have never seen, for a cause they know nothing about.

 

Baekhyun knows this isn’t right.

 

He wants to tell the other soldiers, because in a weird way, he feels a tinge of affection towards all of them. Maybe it is because they are all in the same situation, sharing a fate, trapped by the same injustice. They don’t share a brotherhood, not really, because they are not encouraged to have any relationships beyond a professional detachment. Baekhyun knows they can be better. If they weren’t shackled down, they could hold on to each other and discover themselves, because there is no one else.

 

The soldiers are not allowed to roam the ward freely. They spend most of their time in standby heavily sedated, kept in a dreamy, near comatose state until a new mission arises. Occasionally, their m

 

Baekhyun has no opportunities to approach the other soldiers.

 

Not until they are assigned the same target.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

As far as large-scale missions go, 01 is considered the commander of the soldiers.

 

They are able to operate individually, but on the rare occasions when they are sent out as a unit, they all defer to 01. It is more practical that way, and while 01 is not the best soldier, he has the most experience and more completed missions than any of the others. It counts for something.

 

The handlers snicker amongst themselves, calling him their “perfect soldier” and a lapdog who only exists to please his master.

 

For all 01 knows, this is true. In a dark and fluid world, his servitude is the single constant and the only thing he knows for certain.

 

When his handler gives him the command of the unit, he gives 01 one of his most prized possessions. It is 01’s duty to look after and preserve this treasure, while completing the task.

 

So he defends the soldiers as they see their job through. That is his ultimate mission.

 

His handler snickers and calls him “the Guardian”.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

88 is a soldier that specializes in speed and stealth, so his new mission to intercept the transport of a courier drive is sounds like a standard operation.

 

Until it turns out that he isn’t the only one after the drive.

 

He catches the truck by the docks, where the parcel is supposed to be transferred to a ship and the transport is in its most vulnerable phase. He takes out the leading vehicle with one shot from his Panzerfaust, sending it flying and shattering the frontline defense of the main transport. He can’t shoot the truck, it may damage the drive, but he jumps down from his hiding spot on a balcony and approaches the car with his handguns ready to take out any interferences.

 

Unusually, and against the suggestion of his handler prior to mission onset, no one chases after 88 when he nears the car. He frowns, and quickens his pace, but never abandons caution. It could be a strategy he hasn’t encountered before. He cannot afford to be careless.

 

He soon hears noises from behind the truck, but it is not the angry, confused shouts he expects. Men are yelling, not in frustration, but pain, terror and shock.

 

This is definitely unusual.

 

88 is only a few yards away from the car when he understands why.

 

Another individual, not one of his fellow soldiers but similar enough in style and movement, is fighting the guards, and has knocked out all but one when 88 steps around the open car door. He shifts a bit as he knocks the last one out, and that’s when 88 sees it.

 

The newcomer has the box with the courier drive tucked under his arm.

 

This is all the information he needs, and 88’s eyes shine as he fires a shot at the strange man which only grazes his arm before  he spins around and kicks the gun out of 88’s hand seemingly without any surprise at the new development. 88 raises his other gun, but the other agent sees it coming and lands another disarming kick.

 

88 growls as he foregoes sidearms and launches into a roundhouse kick of his own, knocking the precious parcel out of the man’s arms and down to the ground. But his new adversary recovers as quickly as 88 himself, and he finds himself blocking a gloved fist aiming for his face. Then there is an elbow in the edge of his vision, but he ducks, and uses the momentum to drive his underarm into the agent’s stomach. He only falters for a fraction of a second before 88 is pushed back by a knee to his chin, but both of them recovers quickly and readies another blow.

 

88 is confused. No one besides his fellow soldiers back at the ward are able to keep up with him in close combat, but this agent is pushing his limits, predicting his strikes and withstanding his strength. It is unfamiliar and confuses 88, but he knows he cannot let his inadequacies cost him the mission.

 

He pulls out a knife from his belt in an effort to finish the fight quickly and take off with the parcel before reinforcements arrive. In a moment he manages to swipe at his opponents arm, and then a nick to his cheek, but the man is unnervingly agile and moves out of his way before retaliating ruthlessly.

 

It could go on forever, and maybe it does, but the passing time agitates 88 until he missteps, only for a second, and it is enough for his opponent to reverse his wrist and send the knife into its owner’s shoulder. 88 staggers, and the agent uses the opportunity to land another solid kick to his chest which sends him sprawling a few feet.

 

88 is just about to get up on his feet again, shoulder and fatigue be damned, because the man has picked up the parcel again, and then -

 

“Jongin?”

 

He freezes at the word, as if physically restrained and kept in place while a cold wave washes through his chest and down his stomach.

 

What does Jongin mean?

 

Why does he care?

 

“Oh my god, Jongin, is that you?”

 

Jongin is a name. But he isn’t Jongin. He is 88. The guy is mistaken.

 

88 should launch himself at him, use his distraction to his advantage and claim the parcel, but he can’t. He suddenly can’t remember why he should hurt this man, why it is important to get the parcel. He is confused – Jongin? What is this? Who is that?

 

Why does it matter?

 

He looks up and sees the man’s surprised expression, tinged with something darker – something 88 cannot identify.

 

“Jongin….” He says again, his eyes twisting slightly as he exhales deeply, clutching the parcel tighter.

 

“I’m not Jongin,” 88 says slowly, trying to rid himself of this weird sensation. His head tingles a little bit, but the temperature changes and illogical pressure in his chest is the most worrying part of his body’s betrayal. He doesn’t understand it, just like he doesn’t understand this guy spouting nonsense, and suddenly nothing about this mission makes any sense to him anymore.

 

“What do you mean, you – “ the agent starts, but then he cuts himself off and tilts his head slightly. “Jongin what happened to you?”

 

“I’m not Jongin,” 88 repeats, and he realizes that he wants to stand up.

 

He remains kneeling on the tarmac.

 

“Oh Jongin…” The man says, shaking his head. “Who do you think you are? You’ve always been Jongin, I don’t know what you – “

 

“I’m not Jongin,” 88 repeats once more, with force, because the agent needs to be convinced. He doesn’t understand. “I am not Jongin. My identity is classified.”

 

“Jongin, please – “ as if repeating the name would make 88 believe him – “don’t you remember? Not yourself, not – “

 

He swallows, and it is such a strange reaction that 88 can do nothing but copy it.

 

“Don’t you remember me, Jongin?”

 

“No!”

 

Was that him? Why did he respond? He isn’t Jongin. But the answer just burst out of him, pure instinct, and it almost felt like something tense loosened inside of him –

 

This isn’t right. 88 doesn’t know what to do with this. It is not a part of his operational protocol.

 

“Jongin,” the man starts, and now he crouches down to be on 88’s eyelevel, still clutching the parcel and everything about him makes 88 angry. “I’m Taemin. I’m your friend.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

88 grabs at the knife still embedded in his shoulder, releasing it from the bloody tissue and launching it at the man – _Taemin,_ fuck – in one swift motion. He falls forward from the exertion and hears the clang of the knife hitting the ground.

 

When he looks up, his enemy is gone, along with the parcel.

 

88 failed his mission.

 

He recounts the events in a detailed report to his handler, who looks less than pleased with his imperfect performance. He puts 88 on the table for a while, and the shocks wrecks through his already distressed body and sends flashing images of _something_ through his mind for a long time before he is allowed to relax.

 

He is lucky.

 

He failed his mission – he should be punished. Respite is a luxury he shouldn’t be rewarded

 

And yet….

 

“Who is he?” 88 asks quietly as his handler pack up the weapons he used during the (failed) mission.

 

His handler isn’t obliged to reply, of course. 88 shouldn’t ask. He isn’t in a position to ask question, especially not after today. He is only supposed to obey.

 

“Who?” His handler indulges him, but doesn’t look up from his work. 88’s fist curl up in his lap.

 

“The man,” he says. “The one I fought.”

 

“Why’d you wanna know?”

 

“He was strong,” 88 pauses for a second. “His name was Taemin. He said my name is Jongin.”

 

His handler looks up from his desk, rust-specked knife in hand confusion evident on his face. Even 88 picks it up.

 

“He was probably someone from a rival org,” the handler says eventually, uncharacteristically subdued and thoughtful. “Chattin’ shit. Don’t think about it.”

 

88 wants to follow his orders. He wants to restore order to the world again, so he tries not to think about it.

 

He can’t quite stop his mind.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

88 doesn’t dream. But the next time the nurse puts him under, leaves him in hibernation until a new mission arises, he dreams of a young boy with dark hair and big eyes, happy smiles and music.

 

He still remembers the name Jongin when he wakes up.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

12 knows he isn’t supposed to see that, but he can’t help it that his handler is an inattentive man.

 

He pushes a few buttons on the keyboard while 12 sits patiently behind him, waiting for further instructions. Something pops up on the screen and the handler hums softly to himself. A few more taps, and a minute of silence as he regards whatever it is he pulled up. 12 doesn’t move.

 

“Fuck me,” the handler says eventually, and gets up. He hurries out of the room without looking back at 12, who only blinks. Thirty seconds pass. Nothing happens.

 

Then he looks at the computer screen.

 

The first thing he sees is a picture of himself, in the standby white scrubs. There is a heading over the photo, titled ‘X-12’. That’s also him.

 

He knows that he isn’t supposed to see this. There is a reason why mission files are read out rather than given to him. But he was never told not to look at this, this, whatever is in front of him. Strictly speaking, he is not disobeying any orders. And information always comes handy.

 

He squints a little and looks at the screen.

 

The first thing that catches his attention is ‘NAME: Do Kyungsoo’ right next to the picture.

 

Is that him, then? Is he Do Kyungsoo? Probably.

 

X-12 doesn’t sound like a real name anyway. And he supposes it makes sense that he has a name, like everyone else.

 

Still, it’s a bit strange that he didn’t know this until now.

 

Next, he reads some mundane details, like date of birth, weight, height. He didn’t know any of this, but he doesn’t know why he should, anyway. Then there is date of acquisition – and a date, but it means nothing to him, because he doesn’t know what date it is right now. Days pass strangely during missions, and he never knows how long he is kept on standby before being called out. He closes his eyes one second, and opens them the next, and for all he knows, weeks could have passed.

 

Then there is a brief section without a title.

 

_Subject acquired along with the remaining eight (8) soldiers of the X-unit. All subjects resisted but were subdued through force by squad 13P (ref. agent Shun). Project X was initiated immediately upon arrival at base Apple. Subject 12 responded well to the initial Tyvelthonanide stimuli -_

He looks up from the text as his handler enters again, and doesn’t say anything. His handler doesn’t appear to notice him reading.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun finds himself on a mission with 88 and 94 when he sees his first opportunity.

 

They are waiting, perched on a rooftop as they await the signal from 21 over their headsets. Usually the long hours are filled with patient silence, but today 88 speaks up.

 

“Have you ever met any outsiders?” He asks, quietly, and looks between Baekhyun and 94. Baekhyun lifts an eyebrow, but 94 snorts from his spot by the ledge, where he is cleaning his gun.

 

“We meet them all the time,” he says. “Usually their face end up all bloody and on the ground.”

 

“No, I mean…” 88 hesitates a little bit, but Baekhyun eyes him carefully, because 88 is not acting as he should. He looks nervous, fidgety, insecure – that’s not the attitude of a soldier. “Have you ever talked to anyone from the outside? Or, did they talk to you?”

 

“No,” 94 replies easily. “Not a part of the mission. Waste of time.”

 

“Why do you ask?” Baekhyun asks, ignoring the dejected look on 88’s face.

 

“It’s weird…” 88 starts, again slowly, like he isn’t sure what he is saying, or if he should say anything at all. But Baekhyun is intrigued, because this is unusual for the stoic soldiers, it’s more like 88 is asking because he wants to, and not because he has to. Baekhyun approves of this. He approves of anything that can break the mould.

 

“Go on,” he encourages, and 88 looks up at him, blinks, and nods. Baekhyun smiles.

 

None of the other soldiers smile.

 

“During mission 621-C, I encountered an unexpected hostile, who fought like me, he was – “ 88 scrunches up his nose, and Baekhyun blinks again, because he has never seen 88 do anything like this. “He was better than me. But then he stopped fighting and looked at me, and he said I was his friend?”

 

Baekhyun freezes. He did not expect this.

 

He is sure it means something, but he can’t say exactly what. It has never happened to him, and it doesn’t sound like something he could imagine either, despite his superior imagination.

 

But it’s something big, he knows. This isn’t just something different than what he expected – this is _more_ than he could even hope for.

 

“Did he say anything else?” Baekyun asks, mouth dry.

 

88 looks up, a little bit surprised, and Baekhyun realizes 88 didn’t think he would be taken seriously, that anyone would be interested.

 

He’s wrong. Baekhyun is very interested. 94’s shoulders tense and he is frowning, but doesn’t say anything more.

 

“Welll…” 88 continues, scratching his chin. Another movement Baekhyun has never seen before, but now, it looks completely natural and he wonders, if – maybe, 88 is…

 

“He asked what happened to me.” 88’s hand moves from his chin and to his hair, bright blond in the darkness. He sweeps it away from eyes illuminated in the darkness. “He said my name is Jongin.”

 

Baekhyun can’t help the little laugh at the admission.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Baekhyun says, shaking his head, but he’s not sorry. He’s pleased. “He is probably right. I think your name is Jongin.”

 

88 – _Jongin,_ that is his name, yes, it fits so well, and Baekhyun likes it a lot better than 88 – looks at him, confusion evident and maybe he looks a little bit betrayed, but Baekhyun doesn’t care, because this means they can be fixed, they can _all_ be fixed. He just has to find the right buttons to push.

 

Maybe he will remember more of himself as well.

 

It sounds like – if the person _Jongin_ fought is telling the truth, then _Jongin_ used to be someone else, before…. What?

 

Before the ward?

 

 Before something happened?

 

What?

 

“But I’m not Jongin.” Baekhyun’s thoughts are interrupted by a timid sound from the side. “I’m X-88. I don’t remember him at all, I – “

 

 _Jongin_ stops himself.

 

“Are you sure?” Baekhyun prompts. He is willing to chase every lead. He’s only got so many.

 

“Not…” _Jongin_ frowns. “When I was put on standby that night, I dreamed of a boy, and I think it was him.”

 

“We don’t dream,” 94 mumbles from the side. Baekhyun gives him a glare, but 94 doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are focused on a spot on the ground, but his shoulders are still tense and maybe Baekhyun isn’t just fighting one battle right now.

 

“I know,” _Jongin_ agrees, regardless of 94’s attitude. “But I did. It was strange, almost like…”

 

“Like a memory?” Baekhyun supplies helpfully (hopefully) when _Jongin_ trails off.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then maybe it is.”

 

 _Jongin_ shakes his head. “But I’ve never been anywhere but the ward. They… They made me.”

 

“Ae you sure?” Baekhyun lifts his eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

 

“My handler said so.”

 

“Don’t you think they could have lied to you?”

 

“They – “ _Jongin_ shakes his head. “No, they wouldn’t do that.”

 

“Wouldn’t they?” Baekhyun challenges. “What do they do when you’re done with missions? They drug you until they need you again. Put you right into the crossfire. Why? We don’t even know. And what happens when you don’t succeed?”

 

“They punish us – “

 

“And that’s not very nice, is it?” Baekhyun says, and _Jongin_ opens his mouth before closing it again. Once more, before he seems to find the right words.

 

“But we deserve it,” he says, weakly, and he’s not looking at Baekhyun anymore. “We deserve to be punished when we do badly.”

 

“No, we don’t,” Baekhyun shakes his head and grabs _Jongin’s_ hand. “No one deserves this. They mess around with our heads and bodies, and make us do things we don’t want to, and then they antagonize us for not killing someone? This isn’t right, Jongin.”

 

“That’s not my name – “ but he doesn’t yank his hand away.

 

“I think it is,” Baekhyun protests. “Would your handler be punished if he gave you the wrong gun?”

 

“No, but that’s because he isn’t a soldier – “

 

“And why are we soldiers? They’ve stolen our identities, Jongin, and made us into something we are not. You might not remember, because they made you forget, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t you.”

 

 _Jongin_ looks conflicted and Baekhyun feels such sympathy for this boy, not just for his current turmoil, but for everything the ward has ever done to him and the life they took from him. Even if Baekhyun doesn’t know exactly what that is.

 

He smiles at _Jongin_ instead, sadly, but heartfelt, reassuring.

 

“I know much more than you,” he says quietly. “But I know that what they are doing is wrong. I know that this isn’t me. And I know that my name is Baekhyun.”

 

“Baekhyun?” _Jongin_ questions, and looks up. “Not 04?”

 

“No,” Baekhyun shakes his head. “Baekhyun. 04 is the name they gave me, just like they call you 88 even if your name is Jongin.”

 

“Oh.” Jongin says, nods once, looks at his hands. “Do you – “

 

“Signal’s out. We move in.” 94 interrupts from the side and quickly holsters his gun. Baekhyun and Jongin look at each other one more time, but in the end they get up, because regardless of what’s going on now, before, in the future, they have to complete this job.

 

For now, they are still soldiers.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

One day, 61 asks his handler a simple question as he retrieves his weapons before a new mission with 94.

 

“Who is Wu Yifan?” He says, because the name has been on his mind since he woke up.

 

His handler shrugs and hands him a semi-automatic. “A former target. You took him out.”

 

61 accepts this explanation. It sounds plausible.

 

But he doesn’t forget the name.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

01 remembers the first time one of the soldiers got hurt during a level 7 mission. 21 had been shot during a firefight, the bullet going straight through his side, a clean entry and exit wound.

 

But they had not finished the mission yet, and 01 spent a good minute thinking about what to do while 04 wrapped the injury as best he could. 21 would not be of much more help during this mission, in fact he would be a liability. He had already lost a lot of blood and was unsteady on his feet, needing a shoulder to lean on just to move sluggishly from one side of the basement to the other.

 

In the end, 01 sent him back to base with 04 and 61.

 

His handler’s reaction towards this decision, later, after they completed it successfully (though not within the estimated timeframe and with more trouble than anticipated), was only mildly pleased. He appreciated the safe return of all the soldiers, but not the outcome of the mission.

 

Although, as far as 01 was concerned, he kept the soldiers alive, took care of them, and that was the most important part.

 

Now, though, they are deep in enemy territory, 99 is knocked out from a heavy blow to the head and 12 has a knife through his shoulder. The rest of the soldiers are weary, but operational, and could see the mission through. 01 has to think fast, because they cannot afford to stay still for much longer, but his decision will determine the outcome of the mission.

 

He had received unusual instructions from his handler prior to the mission, saying that contrary to his usual orders, the completion of this mission is of a higher priority than the survival of all soldiers. His job today is to complete the job, not protect the soldiers.

 

His decision shouldn’t be difficult, because the mission parameters clearly dictates what he should do in this situation. 99 and 12 are valuable members, especially since 12’s physical prowess has increased significantly over the past couple of weeks. But they are worth less than the mission. They make the team vulnerable, and 01 knows he should leave them. They should leave them here and move on to the actual target.

 

It is a death sentence.

 

If they leave 99 and 12 here, they will never see them again.

 

That is the fate 01 should condemn them to, because that is what his instructions say.

 

That is not what he does.

 

His every instinct tells him that these two soldiers are more important than the mission, that he should protect them. And this is what he intends to do, even if it goes against his orders.

 

The other soldiers know about his orders, and regardless of what they may think, they are ready to follow 01 where he wants to go. The only exception, perhaps, is 04 – 04, who does not act much like a soldier, but whose loyalty goes deeper than any of them. 04 tends to be vocal about anything he disagrees with, and most of his arguments uses ideas like ‘right’, ‘wrong’, ‘fairness’ and ‘inhuman’.

 

01 knows what he would say in this case.

 

He is surprisingly pleased to find himself on the same side of 04 for once.

 

99 is propped up next to 10, who keeps a piece of torn fabric against the bleeding wound at his temple while looking at 01. 01 bends down to look at the pale face, stained with scarlet, brown, black, and brushes some of it away.

 

“How is he?” He asks 10.

 

“Not too good,” 10 answers softly. “He’s tough, but there is a crack in the bone, and he has lost a lot of blood.”

 

He sounds a little bit concerned, which is strange, because the soldiers are supposed to have an entirely neutral relationship to one another. Maybe he is just worried about the mission. Maybe he’s getting agitated at 01’s delayed reaction.

 

It’s the most logical explanation.

 

01 looks over at 12, similarly supported by 61 and 21, but at least he’s still awake. As he glances over, 12 raises his eyebrows at him, not accusing, not anticipating, only questioning.

 

Everyone is waiting for his command.

 

“We head back,” he says and stands up. “X-99 and X-12 need urgent medical attention. Prepare for extraction, X-94, call evac. Get a truck out by the 37th avenue.”

 

“What about the mission?”

 

He isn’t sure who asked the question, but he looks at all of them as he answers. “Abort the mission.”

 

That is what they do, everyone without question because they trust 01 almost unfailingly.

 

Although 01 does not regret this decision, not at all, his handler disagrees. He shouts and punches 01 until he grows too tired himself, and then throws him in the chair. 01 doesn’t know how long he sits there, feeling the shocks and burns run through his body and clouding his mind, but he tells himself it was worth it, it’s all okay. He saved his soldiers, all of them, and that is all that matters.

 

The electricity runs through his muscles at regular intervals, and he only gets a few seconds of reprieve before they start again, higher voltage, then higher, higher, and suddenly it’s over. But it’s not _over_ , of course, his handler can be vicious and has the nurses inject him with something. 01 doesn’t protest, wouldn’t have had the energy to anyway, and slowly he feels the pressuring fire spread through his veins, pulsing and biting and he can’t stop the scream as it intensifies by the minute. He feels nauseous and dizzy, and there is nothing he can do to stop it due to the scratching barbs chaining his wrists to the chair.

 

But he doesn’t regret anything.


	3. part iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special warnings in this chapter (in addition to the overall warnings and tags) for excessive violence and brief animal cruelty.

Baekhyun figures his attempts at rousing Jongin were successful. He accepts his name, accepts his identity, even Baekhyun’s suggestions that they are mistreated and should – dare he say it – try and make their way out of the ward, escape the clutches of their handlers and embrace themselves and a peaceful existence.

 

It’s a little too much to hope for, but Baekhyun remembers a phrase about aiming high, and that’s what he does. He trusts his sporadic memories or epiphanies, maybe more than he should, but it feels good to hold on to something that comes from himself rather than his handler.

 

This is also why he indulges his urges and starts talking to 61 about their situation.

 

61 is not very receptive at first, but he eventually opens up, just a little, just enough for Baekhyun to keep going.

 

“I thought I was just getting defective,” 61 says as his eyes stay focused on the site he is tracing through the scope of his sniper rifle. “That maybe I needed maintenance. It has been a while, after all.”

 

“No, that’s not it,” Baekhyun says, continuously scanning the area with his sharp eyesight. “I mean, they might think you need to be fixed, because they want to control you, but they shouldn’t. You are your own person, and you should be free to think and do whatever you like.”

 

“I don’t know what I want to do.”

 

“Exactly!” Baekhyun sighs. “That’s the problem. They took away your free will, and that’s not okay.”

 

“Huh.” 61 shifts slightly, moving his rifle just a smidge East. “And this is why the beating isn’t okay either?”

 

“That’s definitely not okay,” Baekhyun says.

 

“But we kill people all the time,” 61 argues. “Does that mean we are bad people as well?”

 

“Sort of…” Baekhyun scratches his head. “But we don’t mean to. They made us do it.”

 

“Because they are bad people,” 61 supplies, and Baekhyun nods.

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Okay, then.” 61 fires off a shot, and then they have to take off because their location has been compromised. But their target is taken out.

 

Baekhyun isn’t sure if he got through to 61, because he sounded so casual about it all, like he understood everything objectively but not subjectively. He wishes he could have made a better emotional appeal, but how do you do that to someone whose personal sentiments have been ripped away?

 

He only worries for a while, until he hears a commotion down the hall during his debrief, and his handler goes out to check. He comes back chuckling, and tells the nurse tending to Baekhyun that 61’s asked a lot of questions and snapped and is now being sent downstairs to ‘atone for his sins’.

 

Baekhyun knows what that means, and he shouldn’t be happy that 61 is going to be punished, but the knowledge that his words meant something to the tall soldier warms something in his chest.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

99 draws a finger along the window, looking at the rain as it hits the opposite side of the glass. It’s not quite dark outside, but it’s a bit gloomy nonetheless, and 99 can see the reflection of his eyes. They light up, like they do when he’s in an intense fight or particularly agitated.

 

He doesn’t quite understand why.

 

He’s relaxed.

 

He’s in a car, heading back to the ward after another successful mission. It’s a completely ordinary situation, nothing unsettling about it at all. His handler is in the front seat, chatting quietly with the driver, while 99 is alone in the backseat with the equipment he’s used. Nothing much today, really, a semi-automatic and one Glock. It was a clean hit, simple, unmemorable.

 

He puts his palm against the damp window. Feels the cold against his skin. Removes it. Flexes his fingers a little.

 

The cold doesn’t bother him. He’s okay with it. It’s just another sensation, nothing wrong with it.

 

He puts one finger back on the window, not quite in the center, but towards the left, and watches the little fog that spreads around it for a second. It’s calming, soothing almost, and 99 smiles a little to himself.

 

Then the little fog spot spreads, slowly, like it’s climbing, and 99 realizes it’s not actually heat but cold emanating from his finger, and the spread consists of tiny crystals that create an intricate pattern on the window. He watches in fascination as the crystals crawl all over the glass, bright and fragile like nothing he has ever seen before.

 

Then the pattern in the middle of the window shifts. The symmetrical crystals reshape themselves, drawig something decidedly out of place, but it still looks beautiful to 99’s eyes. He sees the ice change until it spells out a word…

 

Minseok?

 

He doesn’t know what it means.

 

He doesn’t know why the ice tells him this.

 

He doesn’t know why there is ice coming out of his hands.

 

Then he remembers 61, and the fire that came out of _his_ hands a while ago.

 

He smiles a little to himself. He is sure he will understand it all in time. Things usually work out, in one way or another.

 

As soon as the takes his finger of the window, the ice retracts and disappears, but when he looks down at his hand, he finds snowflakes dancing around his palm.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

94 is furious.

 

He pounces on the target, hands already stained red from the guards and one secretary, gun lost somewhere on the eight floor, and drives the man to the ground. He tumbles on top of him, but doesn’t halt even for a second, landing punches and scratches and growling at his victim. The poor man didn’t even have the time to raise his arms in defense.

 

He pulls his arm back for another punch, straight to the nose, but the target turns his head and the hit lands on his cheekbone, breaking it in a sick crunch and leaving a caved dent on his face. 94 doesn’t care. Again, another punch, and he breaks skin, spurting sluggish blood and white peeks through in sharp shards. His prey still screams, raw, hoarse and in utter agony.

 

94 switches hands, and with his left hand he hits at a different angle, driving the bloodied head around and he repeats the process, this time breaking an eye socket and bursting an eye. He doesn’t stop, keeps on pounding until the nose is a crumpled mess, chin unrecognizable and the entire face mostly reduced to a beaten pulp.

 

His own knuckles are bruised and bloodied, but most of it isn’t his own. He doesn’t feel the pain anyway, not now.

 

94 thinks about the mission some time ago, the one with 04 and 88. They kept talking about things, strange things he hasn’t heard about before, and it confused him. He doesn’t have a name, or dreams, or anyone else who knows him, he is sure of that.

 

Or at least, he was.

 

He went back to the ward with the two of them, silent, contemplating what they said. They sounded so sincere, so pained, and 94 kept thinking about this even as he gave his report. He mentioned it to his handler, who backhanded him and told him to forget about such talk.

 

He tried, he really did.

 

But his mind wouldn’t let it go.

 

The entire thing confused him so much, because what if they were right? What if he, 94, isn’t really 94, and the ward has tricked them all into believing strange things and made them do things they never wanted to?

 

It doesn’t make any sense – the ward is all he knows, he didn’t exist before the ward.

 

He doesn’t remember the first time he opened his eyes, he doesn’t remember much of distant memories at all. They cloud over time, being replaced by new memories of new missions and fresh targets, while past experiences are slowly wiped away by the passing of time.

 

He grabs the target’s hair and raises his head slightly before smashing it down on the polished wooden floor beneath them. The man has stopped screaming, unconscious, or dead, 94 doesn’t care. He is angry and he needs to take it out on something, or else it will devour him.

 

The skull doesn’t give on the first smash, but he sees red seeping out and raises it again. Again, again. The head is 04, with his strange ideas, his compassion and his eagerness. The head is 88, his gullible brain, his childhood friend, his name.

 

It breaks, finally, and 94 screams as he twists the head sharply to the right and up, breaking the neck with a loud noise. He pulls out a knife and stabs it in the unmarred eye, somewhere in the middle of the bloody mess that once was a face. Then he pulls it out, dragging the remains of the eye and torn veins out with it before hacking it apart.

 

The eye is the ward. The eye is everything they did to him because he is just a soldier.

 

Why? Why did his existence suddenly become so complicated? Whose fault is it?

 

He leans back and readies the knife, still with the eyeball impaled at the tip. With one hand, he rips open the target’s jacket and exposes the white shirt underneath. So pure, untainted, yet –

 

Red blooms on the surface as he drives the knife through his chest. The eyeball remains on the knife, like a grotesque ornament, still dripping from the socket and the new chest wound.

 

94 knows now, has know for a while, that he is more than a soldier. He has know since that horrible mission, the mission that sparked something in his brain. He could never stop thinking about it, and eventually he realized he knew more, realized he recognized some of 04’s arguments.

 

What they make him do is wrong.

 

He isn’t their slave. He should be a person.

 

But he isn’t. He doesn’t know who he is. He just knows how he feels.

 

He twists the knife around, digging it deeper into the chest, painting his hands and his victim in scarlet until there is a gorge exposing broken, blackened cigarette lungs, the twitching lump of a heart and other organs 94 doesn’t know or care about. He slashes open the lungs, three times, and sticks the knife down to the stomach. He knifes this open as well, and the stench of stomach acid and half-digested food crawl up his nose and irritates him further.

 

He doesn’t think he deserves this. Maybe he does, but he wouldn’t know, would he? Because someone turned him into X-94, and now 04 and 88 have reminded him of this, and he is in pain and angry and nothing makes sense anymore besides the blood underneath him. At least that doesn’t change. At least that is what it has always been, and 94 knows what to do with blood.

 

He drags the knife across the sternum in six precise strokes, painting a hexagon against the spotted skin. Then he thinks about it, and draws two more intersecting lines, from the top two corners to the bottom two.

 

He leaves half an hour later, still livid, still confused, and still questioning himself. A soft breeze follows him out, but it doesn’t comfort him much.

 

The eye is perched on top of the remnants of the target’s mouth.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

10 is on his way back from a mission when he hears a tiny mewl from a back alley.

 

He stops, turns, and heads straight into the dark and dingy corners away from the main road.

 

The kitten is shivering behind a container, skinny, wet, but lively, and it immediately nuzzles up to 10’s hand when he puts it down to stroke the soft fur. The mewling turns to soft purring and 10 sits down next to the cat, unminding of the wet pavement or the foul-smelling trash by his shoulder.

 

It’s not actually raining anymore, but the ground is still damp from the falls earlier that night, and 10 feels the water seep through the coarse fabric on his knees. He doesn’t mind. His attention is focused on the little grey creature in front of him, watching as it rubs its head against his hand and crawls a bit closer.

 

He hesitates for a second before picking it up.

 

The kitten is tiny in his arms, smaller than 10’s guns and even his pocket knives. He cradles it in two hands, but it would easily fit in one, curled up in his palm and relaxed. Trusting. Fragile. The tiny rumble of delighted purrs echoes in his hands, and 10 can almost feel it in his own chest when he brings the kitten close.

 

It doesn’t realize how dangerous he is.

 

It would be so easy, not even an exertion for him, and he could crush the kitten in his hands. It is completely oblivious, trusts him blindly, and its ignorance makes it vulnerable.

 

10 controls the life of the kitten now, he could kill it or let it live in the blink of an eye.

 

It’s a situation he has been in before. He is often sent to kill people, humans, and when he stands over them, wounded, disarmed, at gun point and trembling before him, 10 knows he controls their fate. It’s a detached sort of knowledge, one which 10 retains but thinks little about because it is a useless thought. It is not his job to think about who lives and who dies. It is his job to carry out the will of his master. His master is the one with the decisions.

 

That’s all there is to it.

 

But now…

 

His handler has never told  him anything about kittens. He doesn’t know what to do with them.

 

Except he kind of does.

 

The petting, cradling, sweet, gentle touches are all instinctive to him, his body reacting before his mind has processed the action and the kitten responds to him so well, as if he is doing the exact right thing. It mewls and purrs and cuddles into his hands and it puts a little smile on 10’s face.

 

He kind of knows what to do with kittens, but he doesn’t know what he _should_ do with them. What the protocol is for a soldier when he meets a kitten. Is he supposed to kill it? Feed it? Leave it alone?

 

But the thought of harming the kitten makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and something constricts and rises in his throat. He doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to hurt the kitten. It sounds like he is wrong. But it feels like he is right.

 

It’s a very confusing thought, so 10 brings the kitten closer to his face and rubs his nose in its fur instead.

 

But then he feels sharp stings on his chin, and even though it’s not very painful (certainly not to him, ache is a comfort he has learned to live with) 10’s instincts scream at him to defend himself, and he flings the source of the hurt away from his face –

 

The kitten yelps sharply as it hits the brick wall, and falls heavily in a lump on the ground.

 

10 only stares at it when it starts squirming, screeching, but not getting up. It’s only moving its head and front paws, and even if 10 doesn’t know much about kittens, he can feel the agony radiating off it and towards him, permeating his body until his spine throbs in a steady rhythm and his legs tremble and burn. His mouth is dry and his head rings, an octave higher than the kitten’s wails and he wants to raise his hands and cover his ears, but somehow they don’t respond. He can only look at the kitten.

 

The little creature is in pain, too much agony for such a harmless thing.

 

10 did this.

 

10 hurt the kitten.

 

It feels anything but right, and suddenly 10 knows that he was not supposed to kill or harm the thing, and he wishes (how strange?) that he had never turned into the alley, but just kept going back to the ward, like he was supposed to do. Then the kitten wouldn’t suffer, and 10 wouldn’t feel so…

 

Guilty?

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles to the kitten, but he still doesn’t reach out to it again. He doesn’t know what to do to make it better, but he wants to do something –

 

“ _Yixing, why did you hurt me?”_ The kittens yelps turn into a wail, but it doesn’t mean anything to 10.

 

_He_ was the one who hurt the kitten, but what is Yixing?

 

“What?” He asks, because his handler always clarifies when he asks questions. His handler thinks he is stupid, but 10 doesn’t mind. He never thought so himself, at least not until he tossed a kitten into a wall and it started speaking to him.

 

It’s not right.

 

“ _Yixing, why did you hurt me?”_ The kitten demands again, and it is the voice of a young boy, but 10 doesn’t think he recognizes it.

 

“ _Yixing, why did you hurt me?”_ 10 shakes his head, his eyes burn, his body shakes and he doesn’t know why he reacts like this. His body – lungs, stomach, head, throat, it all hurts, bit different than a bullet wound or solid punch. It’s all inside, knocking on his skin from the inside out, pressuring his organs and twisting his veins. He has never been scared before, and this terrifies him.

 

_“Yixing, why did you hurt me?”_

“No – “

 

_“Yixing, why did you hurt me?”_

_“Yixing, why did you hurt me?”_

_“Yixing – “_

“No!” He cries and lurches forward, forcing his limbs into mobility as he grabs the kitten and cradles it in his arms again. The little, fluffy body feels different, wrong, twisted compared to earlier, and 10 hates it.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he mutters into the fur, and his cheeks are getting wet and everything is wrong. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t die, I’m sorry – “

 

He sobs and the kitten’s writhing is reduced to mild shivering and 10 feels cold all over.

 

“ _Yixing, why did you hurt me…”_

He didn’t mean to, and he wishes he could fix it, so badly, more than he has every wanted anything before.

 

10 isn’t used to – isn’t _supposed_ to want anything, but right now he feels less like a soldier, and more like a –

 

He feels like Yixing.

 

Suddenly he isn’t cold and hurting anymore, but revering in the warmth that spreads from his hands and through his arms, down his chest and all the way to his toes. His back isn’t tense anymore and his knees feel solid on the ground, and the tingling in his throat has changed from a choking nausea to pleasant buzz.

 

The kitten has stopped wailing.

 

He opens his eyes again and pulls the kitten away from his face to look at it. The shrieks have changed to a soft purring, and it’s curled up comfortably in his palm, not looking at him accusingly or hurt, but content and trusting once more. Its bones feel sturdy again, not broken or bent, and it’s almost as if it never hit the wall at all.

 

Did he do this?

 

He doesn’t think he can fix broken animals.

 

Did he imagine throwing the kitten against the wall?

 

No, that was _real,_ as real as anything he’s ever experienced. He felt the pain – the _kitten’s pain,_ as his own, it asked him why, but he couldn’t say, and then they were both okay. It doesn’t make any sense.

 

But maybe it doesn’t have to.

 

He determines not to tell his handler about this. He wants this to be his own little secret, because he doesn’t think they would like it if he told them. It’s probably wrong, but it feels very right. He doesn’t want the feeling to leave. The way the kitten looks up at him, adoringly and happy, it can’t be wrong, and he wants to remember this, as long as ever.

 

Because it’s right.

 

“ _It’s okay now, thank you, Yixing.”_

 

When he steps out of the alley to find a lonely kid in need of a fluffy companion, he is Yixing.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun and 21 usually takes separate missions. They have similar core competencies, so they are more frequently paired with soldiers who fulfil different roles in an operation.

 

This is why, when 21 mockingly introduces himself to their target as Jongdae, Baekhyun’s jaw drops to the floor in surprise.

 

“Is that your name?” He asks, as the target spasms from surges of electricity courtesy of 21’s three days old abilities.

 

21 shrugs and looks up from the body reeking of burned flesh beneath him, eyes glittering in the morning light. “Yeah, why?”

 

“Since when?”

 

“What do you mean, since when?”

 

“Well, I thought you were – “ Baekhyun swallows, trying to word this correctly without discouraging 21. “I thought you were called X-21?”

 

21 looks at him weirdly.

 

“That’s just a codename,” he says. “My name is Jongdae.”

 

“Well, then, Jongdae, my name is Baekhyun. Nice to meet you.”

 

“Nice to meet you too, Baekhyun.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

One day 94 is woken up and his first thought is, _my name is Sehun,_ and he cries.

 

When the nurse asks him what’s wrong, he punches her in the face, and immediately feels guilty about it, and then he cries some more.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun knows something is up when he wakes up and sees his handler’s stormy face above him. Normally the nurses escort him out to prep, but there is something new today, it must be.

 

“Seems like they are tired of your little antics,” his handler says and sneers distastefully, an unfortunate replacement for his usual cocky grin. “They might not have confirmed that it’s you, but I know. I know that you’re up to some cheeky shit.”

 

Baekhyun stays silent, because anything he could say now would just provoke his handler even further. No need to do that, at least not before he knows what this is about.

 

“Get up,” his handler says then, and Baekhyun slowly obeys, his knees still a bit weak from being kept comatose for so long (how long?) but the handler has no patience. He grabs a hold of the back of Baekhyun’s collar and drags him out into the sterile corridor. It’s quite barren, both of objects and people. As they turn a corner, Baekhyun sees Jongin’s trademark blond hair somewhere before him, next to another handler in a dark uniform, armed and heavy, in contrast to Jongin’s simple white scrubs.

 

They head in the same direction.

 

Eventually they reach a door, and when they enter, Baekhyun recognizes the procedural nurse room.

 

It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, and he halts for a second before his handler drags him towards one of the beds. He sees some of the other soldiers there already – Jongin arrived seconds before him, and is settling down in a bed on the opposite side of the room (hexagon, everything is a hexagon) under the stern glare of his handler. 12 is there as well, appearing surprisingly irritated, because Baekhyun has never seen him anything but painfully stoic and this is a strange development. 99 is sitting quietly as well, almost folded in on himself, in a stark contrast to 94, who looks positively bursting with angry energy.

 

61 is on the bed next to Baekhyun’s, fists closed and a deep frown in place. According to the other soldiers and his handler, 61 has developed a temper and is impossible to pacify these days – even more than usual.

 

Baekhyun takes this as a personal victory.

 

He also notices the burns and lacerations on 61’s face, which he does not celebrate the same way. But he is sitting upright. He looks okay.

 

As Baekhyun settles on the bed, 10 is lead in by two nurses rather than a handler. Baekhyun doesn’t know what this is, but he doesn’t see any point in asking.

 

He is very confused about the situation, but he knows it’s not going to be good. No use in worsening the situation before it has even unfolded.

 

01 and Jongdae are lead in shortly afterwards, and Baekhyun is shocked to see the muffler on Jongdae’s face. Black, thick, and heavy, undoubtedly uncomfortable. Jongdae himself looks very displeased with this, and 01 looks almost apologetic, or maybe empathic. Baekhyun can’t tell.

 

Now they are all gathered. The nurses step up to their beds, one on the left side of all the soldiers, and the handlers scamper off to the side of the room.

 

The door slams open and a tall, menacing guy Baekhyun has never seen before strolls in. His expression is murderous, and he is bigger and broader than any of the soldiers, but not with an unintelligent gleam in his eyes. Like the handlers, he is dressed in black, gun holstered and heavy boots stomping, and Baekhyun suddenly feels very vulnerable.

 

“You have brought this on yourself,” the big man says, angry and loud, and he looks around the room with a glare, making sure to meet the eyes of all the soldiers. None of them back down, but he doesn’t look pleased with their defiance. “All this chat about names and justice and individualism – it’s all bullshit and I won’t have any of it. We took you, and we _made_ you, and you will listen to us. Nothing else matters.”

 

Silence. Then –

 

“Fuck you.”

 

This is Jongdae, he has torn off the mask and tosses it before the man’s booted feet. Baekhyun is very impressed with his audacity.

 

The large man is not.

 

In two swift strides, he is by Jongdae’s bed, and backhands him so hard Jongdae’s head whip around in the blink of an eye.

 

“No, fuck _you,_ ” he says as Jongdae spits out a glob of blood. “I don’t think you understand. We control you. You are only here because we can use you.”

 

He spits at Jongdae, a mock imitation of his earlier actions, and steps back. “Once that changes, you’re out.”

 

“What sort of life is this anyway?” asks 99, his voice almost timid, but the conviction in his eyes is real. “We’re nothing but tools now.”

 

“You tore everything from us,” 94 joins in, his eyes shining with tears and, oh, Baekhyun feels a cold wind through the room. How? Is this 94’s new ability?

 

The big man seems to ignore it.

 

“We did,” he agrees. “And now we will do whatever we need to in order to keep it that way. We tried to let you off easy, with a few reprimands, but you’ve given us no choice. We’ll do a complete wipe, start over. And we will keep doing this until you cooperate.”

 

“Is that what you did before?” Jongin asks, and Baekhyun remembers Jongin’s friend from that one mission he failed.

 

But the man’s patience is gone, and he turns to the head nurse. “Start the procedure.”

 

He says it softly, but they all hear it nonetheless. The nurses all take a step forward, as if a hive, one of them reaches for Baekhyun’s arm –

 

“NO!”

 

There is a loud boom in the room next to them, and the floor shakes, throwing them all off balance and tossing 12 out of his bed. The glass windows to the corridor burst inwards, throwing shards of glass across the nearest beds and their respective nurses. Then a lick of fire follows, and Baekhyun can see that the entire corridor is covered in flames that threaten to migrate to their room. The easy wind from before has whipped up to a contained storm, feeding the fire and inviting it in, and Baekhyun jumps off his bed before it singes his hair.

 

“Inject them!” The big man shouts, crouched in the opposite corner. “I thought you sedated them before! Do it!”

 

One side of the room is beaten by fire and heat and wind, but now a big patch of ice is spreading on the opposite wall, creeping down towards the handlers. Baekhyun glances around the room and sees 99 twist his hands in the direction the ice is going, controlling it, pushing it. Pushing it towards the big guy.

 

“We did!” One of the handlers shout back to their leader. “They’re stronger than we thought. They must have – “

 

His suggestion is cut off by 10, who suddenly appears and pushes a finger against the speaker’s forehead. The man’s eyes roll back into his head, and he falls down at 10’s feet.

 

“You shouldn’t be sleeping at work,” 10 says innocently, but Baekhyun can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

 

He looks around the room, and all the soldiers are now at their feet, approaching the door and the handlers, who are grabbing at their guns, knives, whatever weapon they have on them at the moment. Baekhyun notes that the big man is completely frozen solid, covered in ice.

 

To his right, 01 disarms a handler and knocks him out with an elbow.

 

“You’re right, I am the guardian,” he says to the unconscious handler. “Call me Suho.”

 

The flames have crept over some of the beds now, and Baekhyun winces a little at the nurses caught in the crossfire, but they are acceptable collateral.

 

(Hopefully.)

 

A couple of the handlers escape out the door before the soldiers can take them out, but this is their chance.

 

“Let’s run for it,” Baekhyun says. “Focus on getting out, whatever means necessary. We’ll rendezvous outside, same procedure as usual!”

 

They all nod affirmatively and run out of the room.

 

They are immediately assaulted by nurses with shock pistols and armed guards.

 

“Split up!” Jongdae shout, and they all end up running off through the labyrinthine corridors in pairs, trusting each other to make it out safely.

 

That is, they all run off in pairs except for 61.

 

“61, where are you going?” Baekhyun shouts. “There are no exits from there!”

 

“I know!” 61 cries back, deep voice carrying across the sounds of shots and shrieks and fire. “I have something I need to do first. Get everyone out, I’m torching the building in ten minutes!”

 

Even as he says this, his eyes glow and another wall catches on fire.

 

Baekhyun doesn’t like it, but he has no choice. “Alright, I’ll see you outside!” And then he joins forces with 21, who’s already disarming the nurses’ tasers and electric guns.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

He knows this route well by now, and it is one filled with dread, anger, hurt, and confusion all at the same time. 61 has walked this way a lot of times, always escorted, always with his handler or a nurse or a guard or anyone, essentially. This is the first time he makes the trek on his own, through the massive building and towards the North-western corner, but he knows exactly where to go. He knows exactly what he is looking for.

 

He lets his hand rest on the wall as he runs past, leaving sparks and glowing embers in his wake, and he smirks as he _feels_ the ward itself catch on fire. Destroying this place will be good.

 

Baekhyun triggered something within him. There was always this uneasy restlessness in the back of his mind before, but when he allowed himself to explore it, he was almost overwhelmed by what he discovered. He realized everything, he remembered, he knows.

 

It is devastating, this awareness of what they put him through, any _why –_ it was always just for selfish reasons. All nine of them, erased from the surface of the Earth, only so these people could have some effective soldiers.

 

Their lack of regard for human lives sickens him.

 

The thought that he has taken lives for them, actually destroyed other people for them without objections frightens him.

 

He wants vengeance.

 

He find the office and tears the door open. As expected, his handler is there, grabbing his gun and aiming at 61, but a wall of fire demolishes the bullet before it can touch him. Another shot, and another, but the same thing happens, until the handler drops the ground and backs up towards the wall.

 

61’s eyes are burning, glowing red, amber, scorching as fire and cowering his handler, who has never been on the receiving end of his lethal ire. Usually, it’s the other way around – the handler hitting 61, utilizing all sorts of archaic methods of punishment, a whip, club, fire (oh, the irony), water, anything he wanted to try. He had the perfect guinea pig, after all. He sent 61 down to the basement for conditioning, he put him in the chair for shocks, the drugs, all of it. Always looking for excuses to make 61 scream.

 

Now 61 will make him scream.

 

“I’m – I’m – “

 

“You’re sorry?” 61 suggests, his voice dripping with poison, and he cranes his head slightly before shaking it. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything. Sorry doesn’t help you at all. I don’t want sorry.”

 

“Then…” The handler glances around the room, wincing, looking for an exit. There is none. 61 sets his table on fire, lights up the chair and explodes a bottle of liquid for good measure.

 

“What d-do you want?”

 

“You die,” 61 sneers. “You suffer. And…”

 

“No, please, I-I – “

 

61 steps forward and plants his fist in the handler’s face, making him stumble.

 

“Now, tell me my name.”

 

“W-what?”

 

61 growls and lurches at the handler, his hand reaching for the vulnerable neck and grabbing a hold until he can shake the poor excuse of a man.

 

“What is my name?!” he barks, his grip tightening around the handler’s collar until his nails dig through the fabric and into the soft skin beneath. The handler _whimpers,_ gulps in air, wets his lips slightly, but 61 is not patient.

 

“Tell me!”

 

“Ch-chan – “ the handler starts, the sound hesitant but hysteric. “Chanyeol!”

 

61 – _Chanyeol_ drops him then, and the handler crumbles to the ground, panting and clutching his throat.

 

His name is Chanyeol. He is Chanyeol. He is a person.

 

_I will know who I am._

It feels gratifying, more so than anything he can remember, better than any successfully completed missions or –

 

He realizes that those are his only moments of satisfaction, however brief and muted. It angers him. How can he not have a single happy memory? Who is he? What is wrong with him?

 

No, nothing is wrong with him. Not anymore. He is Chanyeol, and Chanyeol is his own person.

 

The only ones that are wrong are these people. The people who twisted him, tormented him, used him for their own purposes – what purposes? He still doesn’t know, and he doesn’t even care. It’s not important, not anymore, because nothing they can do or say will affect him anymore.

 

They tore him apart once.

 

He will return the favour.

 

His former handler is still heaving, shivering on his knees and looking at the ground. It is such a pitiful sight, so incongruous with the aggressive captor that spent all his time ripping on a wounded and lost soul. Now he is just a blubbering mess. There is nothing intimidating about that.

 

Chanyeol crouches before the handler and stares intently into eyes that refuse to meet his. A good minute passes before he slowly pushes his hand into the handler’s face, his fingers spreading out like spider legs across clammy skin. Then his hand is engulfed in flames, and they slither across his knuckles to devour the entire head, tearing an agonized wail from the handler as his eyes melt, nose searing and hair ablaze.

 

He writhes and twitches, clawing at his face and the invasive hand, until Chanyeol steps back and folds his arms before the wretched display. As soon as the touch is gone, the flames burst, as if unleashed and licks down the handler’s body until all that remains is a shaking, screaming mass of flames on the floor.

 

Chanyeol watches, passive save for the little smirk blooming on his lips.

 

This is satisfaction.

 

He knows he doesn’t have the time, he should leave, but he allows himself to savour this moment.

 

The first time Chanyeol is happy.


End file.
